The Painting
by Fallenbelle2
Summary: Julia gives William quite the surprise indeed for an anniversary gift.
1. Chapter 1

Title: The Painting

Author: Fallenbelle

Summary: Julia has quite the surprise planned for their first wedding anniversary.

Rating: Teen for descriptions of nudity, language.

Author's Note: I must admit, I kind of got this idea after a discussion of Julia painting William in the nude about the same time I saw the Miss Fisher episode "Murder at Montparnasse". This is what happens when those ideas are combined. Vague season 8 spoilers, but pretty much pure imagination and wild, unfounded speculation. Blame Demosthenes23 and Fralinger for this. Unbeta'd-all mistakes mine alone.

* * *

With their first anniversary as a married couple coming up, Julia could hardly believe that it had been a year already since she'd married William, but it had indeed flown by. It was truly one of the happiest times in her life, and she was lucky to have a man like William for a husband, for many reasons.

He wasn't difficult to look at, in fact quite the opposite, and while he was no longer the beautiful youth he must have been in his younger days, he still cut a damn fine figure and his experience made him all the more appealing in Julia's eyes. While she still possessed a bit of a jealous streak, she was now secure enough to know that he loved her beyond compare, and could safely note with pride the appreciative glances he received from other women. While she'd managed to overcome her jealousy, she was still thankful that the attention of other women was something he still seemed oblivious to or simply not interested in, and did nothing to encourage it himself-a fact she was most happy for.

He was also her biggest supporter, whether it be her career, her crusades for women's reproductive rights, or suffrage, and supported her to the best of his ability. Admittedly, he didn't care for her putting herself in harm's way on a regular basis, but he supported her desire to have the same basic fundamental rights he himself enjoyed, and in return, she had promised to never go on a hunger strike or other act of disobedience should she find herself in jail, and would try to avoid trouble as much as she could.

Julia knew that he wasn't so concerned on having a suffragette for a wife as much as he feared for her safety. But that's when she told him that she also feared for his own safety and wasn't trying to stop him from performing his calling: seeking justice.

Thus, they both agreed to be careful and to respect what the other was trying to accomplish. Not that it was the easiest of agreements, or that there wasn't some occasional friction in regards to the topic, but it was a tacit understanding at least.

So, with their first anniversary as husband and wife quickly approaching, Julia struggled to think of something with which to surprise her husband. Tradition dictated that paper was the go-to gift, and she supposed a book would be the most practical choice, but she wasn't sure she wanted to go this route. She'd always been reluctant to select a book for him after he had once told her that Mendel's plants had been mere light summer reading, and there was no telling which subject would pique his fancy next. Also, there was his claim that he didn't care for novels, though he'd enjoyed it when she read Dracula to him at night and had even reenacted a key scene from the story that focused on her neck after one particularly inspiring passage.

Thus, she had long ago decided that it was best for him to select his reading material himself and merely tantalize him with snippets from her more scandalous novels. Plus, they already had copies of Tales of the Arabian Nights and the Kama Sutra, and Julia was hard pressed to think of any noteworthy additions to their collection of scandalous tomes at present.

Photography was paper, and she had considered sitting for a portrait briefly, but her more artistic, bohemian side didn't necessarily love the idea. For one thing, he already had pictures of her in addition to their wedding portraits, and besides, the camera captured you exactly as you were-there was none of the beauty or artistic license of a painting. Plus, she already knew how William felt about scandalous photographs-he had claimed they led men to dark places, and she herself far preferred the beautiful eroticism of a painted nude over the crassness of a photograph, and she suspected that he did as well.

Previous experience with that Bertrand Leichmann painting once so prominently displayed in his office had taught her that despite his protestations, he was intrigued with a beautiful nude. Sure, he'd tried to claim that it was a landscape, and she had been puzzled at his obtuseness, but once she'd found out who the model was, she knew where his discomfort and denial had come.

Admittedly, that was not one of their better memories and for the longest time, Julia couldn't understand what it was about Sally Pendrick that had bewitched him so, until she realized that William seemed to have a thing for tall, intelligent blondes; as evidenced by herself, Enid, Anna, and Sally. Julia didn't know how she was supposed to feel that she fit the pattern all too well and ultimately decided to just not think about it.

But, in the end, they'd overcome their problems and mistakes, and were now happily married. Plus, over the years, she'd seen him stop to admire nudes as they'd encountered them in various places or museums, and of course he'd been drawn to Rembrandt's Bathsheba as he babbled about paint shades and brush strokes. There was something about the beautiful intimacy inherent in the portrait that attracted him, and she loved that he was drawn to them-it spoke of the passion underneath his proper suit and tie-a passion she was now more than acquainted with as his wife.

But still, there was no doubting his appreciation of that genre of painting, and what better gift to surprise him with than a nude of her? He needn't feel guilty about admiring it, it would replace the bad feelings associated with Sally Pendrick's nude, and truth be told, she'd always wanted to pose as an artist's model-something seemed so bohemian and free about it. She had never dared tried it back in university for fear of being exposed and giving the stodgy male establishment a reason to dismiss her from her studies But, the desire had remained-heightened all the more by her trip to Prague.

Besides, wouldn't canvas qualify as a sort of paper product?

Thus, she began to make discreet inquiries and repeatedly heard of a young painter from Montreal, aptly named Jean L'Artiste who excelled at painting the female form most temptingly, and how the finest ladies of Toronto were having their portraits painted by him.

She found his studio in an artist's collective-a space shared by multiple painters and sculptors in a neighborhood complete with smoky cafes and brothels- a natural spot for young artist types. Upon meeting him and giving him her rather immodest proposal, he readily agreed to her terms. It turns out that he was bored with painting society ladies and was more than ready to create a true piece of art. Julia explained that she would pay handsomely, but that the painting must remain a secret and he must not tell anyone of it.

Of course, he was disappointed that the commission wouldn't bring him more notoriety, but once he saw the amount she promised, he got over his reservations and quickly agreed to the terms.

So, the next day she arrived at his studio, intending to wear only the necklace and matching earrings that William had given her on their honeymoon in New York-purchased from Tiffany's on 5th Avenue. In fact, she often wore only the jewelry for him sans any other item of clothing when she seduced him, and most naughtily and on multiple occasions, William had stated that it was his favorite outfit of hers. The effect the ensemble had on him was most unusual, but she appreciated it nonetheless, relishing in the exhilaration in stripping her most proper man of his propriety.

Still, on more than one occasion she'd wondered where he'd found the money to splurge for their opulent honeymoon and expensive jewelry and had even asked, but his response was merely that it was his duty to make the grand gestures to her that spoke of his feelings for her and would never divulge much on the matter.

Well, as Mrs. Murdoch, she considered it her job to shock her husband and surprise him (and despite his sputtering, he did enjoy it), and thus, found herself lying in a supine recumbent position, arms akimbo over her head, and back ever so slightly arched. She was also nude except for her honeymoon jewelry and wedding rings, her hair fanned out across a divan amidst exotic scarves.

It was rather disconcerting being this exposed in front of another man other than her husband, but she chose to fantasize that she was lying in wait for William to take her, and the sittings were all the more tolerable for it.

She could hardly wait to surprise him with the painting-he would undoubtedly never see it coming.

Unfortunately, the surprise of the whole thing actually became bigger than she had intended, and surprise was just one of the emotions William Murdoch would experience upon viewing a nude portrait of his wife.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: I wasn't going to post the second chapter tonight, but because it's the sublime Demosthenes23's birthday and because she asked so nicely (as a good Canadian does J), here it is! The next chapter will be up shortly, but definitely not tonight!

Also, sorry about the glitch. I checked and it appeared for me, but so many of you wrote me to let me know that it wasn't showing up for you. Hopefully, this works now.

* * *

Whatever romantic, bohemian ideals she'd once held, Julia had quickly come to the conclusion that the profession of artist's model was considerably more difficult than it looked, and Julia quickly decided that those poor women in Europe had more than earned their paltry wage and that there was nothing romantic about the endeavor.

Constantly being reminded to expose her neck and arch her back and then hold it, she found herself requesting regular breaks-the last thing she needed to do was injure herself and have to answer questions about how it had happened-she never could lie to William very well.

This continued for several more sessions until Monsieur L'Artiste announced that he thought he had enough material to finish the painting on his own and would call her once the composition was complete.

Unbeknownst to her, as she got up to slip on her robe and redress herself, the clasp on her necklace had caught on the fabric of the divan and had fallen off as she sat up in her haste to put her clothes back on.

It wasn't until much later as she got ready for dinner that she noticed the necklace was gone, and frantically tried to retrace her steps from the afternoon in her mind. She frantically prayed that it was still at the studio and hoped it hadn't fallen off in the street where anyone would have quickly pawned it or even kept it for themselves.

But what if it wasn't? What was she going to tell William? There was no question that he'd notice that it was missing! Had he insured it? Would it be difficult to get a replacement? How difficult would it be to slip down to New York and pick up a replacement?

She took a deep breath, and calmed herself. She'd cross that bridge when she got to it. But she couldn't quite shake the feeling that something bad had happened or was about to happen. It was only a necklace, but why did the thought of having to tell William she'd lost it make her ill?

* * *

Something strange was going on with his wife. She was up to something, but William couldn't quite put his finger on it. When he tried to call her at the asylum to let her know that he was thinking about her, or went by to surprise her in the afternoons, she was often already gone for the day. She'd claimed various appointments, but she always seemed a bit nervous about it, and something nagged at him, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

Still, he'd decided that he wouldn't worry about it too much-he knew Julia was faithful to him and that was all that mattered. She may be his wife, but she was still an independent person and marrying her didn't give him the right to control her –not that she'd let him anyway.

But the bad feeling he had never completely went away, and the whole scenario was reminding him of when she had begun distancing himself from her right before she left for Buffalo. Furthermore, he couldn't help but notice that something was particularly amiss that night at dinner. She seemed particularly quiet and withdrawn at dinner, not engaging in their usual banter of scientific matters-a topic she typically enjoyed.

Despite his repeated queries, she repeatedly assured him that all was well, and that she just had a headache, excusing herself for the night from the table and feigning sleep when he checked on her a few minutes later.

The nagging concern began to grow into full-blown worry, and grabbing his hat, he went for a walk around their neighborhood to clear his head. Here he decided that if she didn't tell him what was going on tomorrow of her volition, he'd confront her, and prepared himself that the news may not be what he wanted to hear.

Little did he know that he'd get his answer the next day without even uttering a word to her.

* * *

The following morning, he was informed of a murder at an artist's studio shared by multiple artists and sculptors, and William immersed himself into that bohemian world once again. Although he'd undeniably been intrigued by this subculture years ago, he hadn't dabbled in it since the days of Sally Pendrick-one of his greatest mistakes as a detective and as a man. He'd allowed himself to be seduced and played by Sally, and not only had he let a killer easily slip through his grasp, it had also been a factor in losing Julia to Darcy-something he wasn't keen to have happen once again.

Arriving at the studio, George briefed William about the facts as they knew them. The deceased was an artist by the name of Richard Partridge, and motive and potential suspects had yet to be established. Once William learned that the studio was a shared collective workspace occupied by several other artists and visited by untold numbers of clients, models, and friends, William groaned.

There would be no way he would be getting home at a decent hour tonight, and there would be no much-needed discussion with Julia.

Pushing his disappointment aside, it was paramount that he keep his wits about him, but the fear that he was about to be caught unawares again only grew within his stomach, and it took most of his self-control to keep focused on interviewing the various artists as well as get the names of their subjects and patrons.

Hours had gone by, and William had interviewed many of the artists and searched the various spaces for clues when he reached the room occupied by a Jean L'Artiste, who was furiously working on an important commission that must be finished soon according to the man and gave the constabulary his word that he wouldn't leave before speaking with them.

But if there was any good news to be derived from this exhausting day, it was readily becoming apparent that Mr. Partridge had been involved with another man's wife, and that the woman's husband was quickly becoming their prime suspect. He didn't condone violence, but he still felt for the man, discovering that his wife was involved with another man. He couldn't imagine how he'd react if he discovered Julia had been having an affair behind his back.

True to his word, it was late in the afternoon before the final artist of the collective studio, Monsieur Jean L'Artiste presented himself to William for an interview, and readily gave permission for the studio to be searched. Speaking with the man, William quickly ruled him out as a suspect, but still wanted to search the studio for anything pertinent that may have evidentiary value, and sent the man out.

After spending another hour going through the various cabinets and drawers, he collapsed in exhaustion onto a divan covered in silk scarves from the far east-no doubt it was a fetching backdrop for a nude of some sort. Looking to his left, he spied something metallic and shiny caught between the cushions and pulled out his handkerchief to get a better look at it.

Carefully picking it up lest it contain valuable evidence, he examined it further and immediately recognized it as a very expensive necklace. In fact, it was just like the piece he'd bought Julia in New York from Tiffany's-he was sure of it. He'd selected it for it's beauty and the way the amethyst stones complimented her skin, hair, and eyes; imagining her out at the theater with it accompanying a beautiful dress and later in their bedroom accompanying nothing but what God above had blessed her with. He'd recognize the piece anywhere.

As he examined the necklace, knowing it cost quite a few pretty pennies and wondering if a murderer may have left it in a hurry, George had entered the studio, and was examining the painting that the artist had just finished.

"Sir, I think you may want to look at this," George called out.

"Just a moment, George," there was something bothering him about the necklace. Just how many pieces were there like this in Toronto, let alone even made by the famous New York jeweler? William doubted it was a one of a kind, but he knew that there weren't many like it either-it's unusualness had most intrigued him.

"Sir," George insisted.

Putting the piece in his pocket, William stood up and walked over to the easel that George was gesturing to. The painting was of an exquisite nude lying across the divan erotically posed, and the model was none other than Julia. There was no mistaking it.

**_His_** Julia! **_His _**wife!

William felt lightheaded and as though he might pass out. Perceptive as ever, George immediately brought a stool over and pushed William onto it.

William just stared at the artwork, mouth agape in shock.

"I'll keep the other men out, sir. Take your time," he finished as he rushed out, giving William a moment to compose himself and keeping anyone else from seeing his wife in all her exquisite glory splayed out across a canvas.

He felt as though he'd been punched in the stomach and his still–beating heart had been ripped right out of his chest, dropping onto the floor and shattering into a million pieces.

He put his head in his hands and took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure before going back out to resume his investigation. He also tried to remain calm, and not jump to conclusions, but suddenly all of the "appointments" and withdrawal from his affections or questions left only one plausible explanation: Julia had betrayed him!


	3. Chapter 3

Authors Note: In honor of Demosthenes23's birthday, I present to you the most guilty of pleasures. There's more coming, but this seemed like a good place to break.

* * *

It was already late in the evening, and far past the time when William should have come home, and Julia grew increasingly worried-not for his physical safety as she knew he was at the station, but anxious that he was upset at her and avoiding her.

Rather than being able to clear things up in the light of day, they'd only gotten worse.

That morning as soon as she had arrived at the asylum, she'd frantically called the artist's studio to ascertain if the necklace was there when she'd been informed that the police were there investigating a murder of one of the artists-but not Monsieur L'Artiste, she'd been assured. The studio could not divulge any further details of the investigation, per police request.

Dammit! The studio was well within the area covered by Station House 4, and Julia hoped that William had not been the one to interview Monsieur L'Artiste. Rather, she hoped that it had been Constable Crabtree or even Constable Higgins-but knowing how Higgins could be a bit of a lech while Crabtree could be counted on to handle the matter with delicacy, she hoped it had been George Crabtree.

But there was nothing she could do but wait for William to come home-where she would come clean about the necklace as well as answer any questions he had of her. He was far too good a man to continue to hurt with her deception-however well intentioned it had been.

At first, she hadn't been entirely truthful with William because she hadn't wanted to ruin the surprise, and would explain all (as well as clear her conscience) when she presented the painting to him. But last night, when she realized that the necklace was gone she'd been too scared to tell him that she may have lost it, and had taken the coward's way out by excusing herself and avoiding him. After she retired for the evening, and feigned sleep when William had tried to check in on her, she'd heard the door close and knew he'd gone out for a walk to clear his head.

No doubt he'd realized that something was up, and there was no question that her reluctance to assuage his fears at her increasingly strange behavior had hurt him. She'd lain awake for hours last night, waiting for him to come back, and had been half-disappointed and half-relieved that when he did return, he did not come to their bed, but had slept on the couch instead, leaving the hotel before she awoke.

In other words, she'd taken the coward's way out again. Something she'd done before when she ran away to Buffalo, and no one needed to tell her how disastrous that had turned out. She would not make that mistake again.

For the fourth time that evening, Julia called the station, hoping to hear his tired yet beautiful voice if only for a few seconds, and for the fourth time, an extremely apologetic George Crabtree told her that the detective wasn't currently taking any calls, and was working a case.

"Did you pass on my messages from earlier, Constable Crabtree?"

"Yes, Doctor. I told him that you needed to speak with him most urgently," George replied.

Julia was pretty sure she could detect nervousness and discomfort in his voice, and knew that he was uncomfortable at being caught in the middle between her and William.

Julia felt somewhat bad for him, but not enough to desist from trying to make some form of contact with her husband.

"He won't even take a moment to speak to his own wife?" Julia queried, her anger rising.

George sighed heavily into the phone, "Dr. Ogden, he specifically mentioned that he did not wish to speak to you. I'm sorry."

Julia laughed bitterly and ended the call before she started crying. She drank an entire decanter of wine, upset that William was avoiding her, before falling asleep, still fully clothed.

She woke the next morning and immediately glanced at the side of the bed where William should have been, but there was no trace of him other than yesterday's suit lying in the pile of clothes to be laundered. He'd clearly slipped in during the early hours of the morning to freshen up, but had made no effort to wake her, kiss her, or make love to her-as was their custom routine when he was caught in an all-consuming case. Despite the demands he faced, he'd always managed to steal a few minutes here and there to show her that she was still important to him as well as how much he missed her.

But not this time, it seems. She called out for him as she walked through the suite looking for him, but he had long since departed again, with nary any communication-save for her once missing necklace lying on her vanity-with a short note scrawled on the hotel's stationary:

_Found this while investigating a murder at an artist's studio._

_ W_

Grabbing the necklace to clutch to her chest, she collapsed onto the vanity stool and began to cry once more. The note was so cold, so impersonal, and devoid of his usual "love" that he usually signed off with. Things were worse than she had even imagined.

And she had no idea how to fix it when he wouldn't even talk to her.

* * *

Despite the emotional ruin the case had brought him from a personal standpoint, it had been fairly open and shut. One of the artists had entered into an affair with one of the women whose portrait he was supposed to paint, and the husband had gone into a jealous rage. He'd seen it before, was experiencing it now himself, and knew he'd see it again.

What was it about an artist that drove a woman to betray those she loved?

He'd once told Giles that lovers deceive in an interrogation with the former Chief Constable, and he laughed bitterly at how true the statement really was. Men may have the social, political, and economic power, but was there any question as to held the real power in the relationship? A woman of course! Who else could reduce a logical, sane, sentient person into a former shadow of himself? And he was a sad, pathetic man, he'd decided. Despite her betrayal, he still loved her to ruin-which only served to make him despise himself all the more.

And it was clear that his love for her had indeed ruined him, making him a foolish cuckold oblivious to the fact that he'd failed yet again to arouse her passions, and he'd lost her to one who did; again.

He'd slipped back to their suite last night late enough for her to finally be asleep, but not yet early enough to be awake, and despite his anger at her, he couldn't help but watch her sleep for a few minutes, beholding her beauty before he gathered his things and freshened up for another day.

He knew she wanted to talk to him, had called the station leaving imploring messages with George, but he couldn't trust himself to talk to her-not yet, anyway.

He also felt like a right bastard for putting George in this situation, but to fix that would mean talking to her-something he didn't yet trust himself to do.

Pounding his desk in frustration, he got up and began to pace around his office. As angry as he was, he would not turn into his father. He had never hit a woman and wouldn't start now, although at that moment, he certainly understood the temptation.

But he had hit a man his wounded ego reminded him, and grabbing his hat, he left the station and made his way to the studio of Monsieur L'Artiste. He had a few scores to settle.


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note: Next chapter should see this story wrapped up! Thanks for your kind reviews!

* * *

He made his way back to the studio of Monsieur L'Artiste, intent on settling the score and getting answers.

Flinging open the door without knocking, he was glad to see that the man was there and relieved to see that Julia was not.

But the damned painting was there, prominently displayed, and as he approached it, he was unconsciously mesmerized by his wife's beauty. It wasn't just her body that captivated him, beautiful though it was. It was also her erotic pose along with the look of rapture on her face that made his heart ache all the more. He remembered how Rembrandt had once painted his mistress Hendrickje Stoffels as the alluring Bathsheba, and William believed that only a lover could portray a woman that way. Which was why there was no question in his mind that Julia and Jean L'Artiste were lovers.

Weren't they?

It wasn't until the other man coughed that William snapped out of his reverence and paid the artist any heed.

"Exquisite and stunning, is she not, Detective?"

"Indeed, she is," William replied coldly, trying to resist the urge to knock the man out then and there. It took just about all of his self-control, but he managed.

"What can I help you with? I thought Mr. Partridge's killer had been caught. Nasty business, that," the artist supplied with an insouciant shrug.

"Yes, sleeping with another man's wife is indeed a nasty business. Affairs of the heart are quite insidious that way," William retorted.

"Richard was a fool-an artist should know to never dip your brush in the pot of your patron. That's why I don't involve myself with married women-I'll paint them, maybe flirt with them, but I save my affections for the girls at the cafes and the occasional model. It's easier that way."

"And this woman here, surely she's married-look at her rings," William gestured to the band of gold on the woman's (Julia's) hand. "That didn't stop you from having a dalliance with _her_. Or does she mean nothing to you, just another conquest perhaps?" William found himself becoming inexplicably angry at the thought of Julia being tossed aside- even by another man.

"A beautiful woman, Detective, and had she not been a patron, as well as married, I would have pursued her."

"But you didn't?" William asked.

"No, of course I was tempted, but this is a woman who only has eyes for her husband, and what a lucky man he is-to have such a beautiful woman present an erotic portrait to him for an anniversary gift."

William stared at the man, dumfounded. The portrait was his anniversary gift? The man wasn't having an affair with Julia?

Monsieur L'Artiste continued, "But alas, how does this portrait relate to the murder of Richard? I don't see how they're connected?"

"They don't appear to be, Monsieur L'Artiste. It seems I was mistaken, but I'm assuming she's on her way to pick up the portrait now," William asked, gesturing at the artwork.

"As a matter of fact, she's here now," a decidedly feminine voice replied from the door.

William spun around, but not that he needed visual confirmation to know that it was Julia-he'd know her voice anywhere. They stared at one another for a long moment before William broke the gaze.

If Monsieur L'Artiste had noticed anything strange about their interaction, he didn't make any mention of it.

"A most beautiful composition, ma'am. Thank you for your time Monsieur L'Artiste-I'll see myself out," he finished as he tipped his hat to Julia and took his leave before Julia said anything else to him.

He walked as quickly as he could, attempting to put as much distance between him and Julia as he could lest she come after him. He wasn't ready to talk to her-there were things he still needed to process.

The immediate question on his mind of course was if Julia and the artist had not had a sexual liaison, why was he still angry with her? Why did he still feel betrayed?

* * *

He'd meant to walk around the park to gather his thoughts in peace, but it was not long before he found himself at his Church instead. Undoubtedly it was time to make confession to Father Clements and gain perspective on things. Perhaps that would help clarify matters.

William wasn't sure when it had happened, but what had begun as confession had quickly turned into marital counseling. He'd recounted his concerns and fears over the past few weeks and how they'd culminated in the horrible events of yesterday at the artist's studio when he'd found the necklace and portrait.

"That sounds quite traumatic, William. How did you feel once you discovered the necklace and the portrait?"

"Betrayed. Hurt. Deceived. Anger." William replied. "In fact, I'm still angry."

"Well, hurt and anger are more than understandable. But let's be specific here. How were you betrayed? Is it because she posed nude for another man?"

"Yes."

"Do you believe her capable of having relations with another man without your knowledge?"

"I don't know. I wouldn't have thought so. In fact, I just came from the studio-the artist says they didn't have relations. He had no cause to lie, in fact, he didn't know that the portrait was of my wife."

"I see. You haven't spoken to her about this yet, have you?"

"No, I have not."

"Then I think this is a discussion you need to continue with your wife. Might I remind you that there is no divorce in the eyes of the Church, William? Is a civil action where she is free to legally but not morally join with any other man really what you want?"

William's only response was a deep and broken sigh as he pinched the bridge of his nose in an attempt to alleviate the massive headache he'd had since yesterday.

He still wasn't ready to talk to Julia, but Father Clements was right; whether he wanted or not, he had to have a discussion with Julia before they did too much damage to one another.

* * *

Upon, leaving the artist's studio, Julia had been furious that William had pretended not to know her, and how quickly he had left, but Julia had to concede, the conversation they needed to have should not take place at the studio.

She'd stood outside the studio's doorway for several minutes, listening to the conversation between Monsieur L'Artiste and William, and had been dumfounded to hear that William believed her to be having an affair! How could he believe such a thing? How could he think she would even do such a thing?

And as hurt as she was that he was jumping to the most inappropriate of conclusions, she knew that he was hurting more, and that since she was responsible for this whole debacle, it was her responsibility to set matters straight at once.

There had once been a time when she would have fled, leaving William before he could leave her. But not this time-that action had only made matters worse, and she'd sworn to herself and William that she'd never do it again.

In order to heal the rift, things needed to be said-the sooner, the better. This meant that a confrontation was imminent, but how did you do that if your husband wouldn't engage?

You would give him no choice. Picking up her pace, she went as quickly as she could to the station, where she would lie in wait for William-for however long was necessary. A plan quickly began to form in her mind.

Upon her arrival, she was relieved to discover that William had not directly returned to the station, which allowed her to set up.

Telling George that no one was to walk into William's office under any circumstances and he was most assuredly not to tell William that she was waiting for him in his office, she closed the door and lowered the blinds.

Unwrapping the brown paper that covered her portrait, she prominently displayed it on one of his bookshelves in a spot where he couldn't miss it.

Clearing his worktable and spreading out the blanket and pillows he kept in his office for when he slept there, she turned off the lights, keeping only the lamps on, setting as much of a mood she could possibly create in the space. Her work complete, she began to undress until she wore only what he referred to as his favorite outfit: hair loose and flowing and the jewelry he'd bought for her in New York. She laid herself out across the table and waited. Hopefully, it wouldn't be too long before he returned, and hopefully George Crabtree wouldn't let her down by keeping everyone else but William out of the office.

They really did owe George big for putting him through this.

It wasn't too long before she heard George greeting William and apprising him of details in a rather loud voice-warning her that William was on his way.

She could barely make out William's reply as he walked toward his office, his steps announcing his arrival just before the door latch released.

She assumed the position to match the portrait (she'd had plenty of practice) and held her breath. There was no way he wouldn't react to her in her current state. He wouldn't just walk away again-would he?

Certainly your nude wife in your place of business was worthy of attention was it not?

She was about to find out.

* * *

After he'd left the Church, he'd walked back to the station, to finalize the details on his report on the murder investigation of Richard Partridge, and to gather his thoughts and prepare for what would undoubtedly be quite the confrontation with Julia back in their hotel suite.

By this hour in the late afternoon/early evening, the day shift was trickling out and the station was largely quiet, and most of the other constables had left. George updated him on the most recent events-albeit quite loudly and then suddenly announced that he was going to be in the armory if he needed him.

Puzzled at George's behavior, William still didn't give much thought to it-the Constable's behavior was often unusual and besides, William had other things to contemplate-such as the poor state of his marriage. Shrugging the thought off, he opened the door to be greeted by the most sublime and shocking of sights.

Emulating the pose from her portrait (which was now prominently displayed on his bookshelf), Julia lay across his worktable, in his favorite outfit of hers-naught but her feminine attributes and jewelry.

Standing in his doorway in a stupor for several seconds, he slammed the door behind him and walked over to the table. His first instinct was to take her at once, doing so to drive all memory of the past day and a half from his brain, but he forced himself to remember that he was angry with her as he took in the sight of her.

Taking a deep breath (wincing as he inhaled her unmistakable scent), he asked her but one question.

"What on God's Earth do you think you're doing, _Mrs. Murdoch_?"


	5. Chapter 5

Okay, the final chapter. Be warned, this one gets a bit M-ish. Enjoy! Thanks for all of your kind reviews, and constructive criticism is welcome! Thanks to the ladies at the forum for their encouragement.

* * *

"What on God's Earth do you think you're doing, _Mrs. Murdoch_?" William angrily asked.

"_Mrs. Murdoch_? You haven't acknowledged my existence in almost two days, refuse to take my phone calls, sneak in and out of our home in the dead of night, leave passive notes that are still most aggressive with lost articles on my vanity, suspect me of adultery, and suddenly I'm Mrs. Murdoch again?" Julia spat back, sitting up on the table while her arms flailed about wildly to make her point. But in doing so, her breasts jiggled most beguilingly, a fact not lost on William as he stared at them.

Rolling her eyes in disgust, Julia suddenly regretted her decision to disrobe-particularly as William was still fully clothed. She folded her arms over her chest.

Snorting, William removed his jacket and handed it to her, "Yes, Mrs. Murdoch. By all means, if you're going to practice modesty at all, do so around your husband," he acidly spoke as he turned his back and walked over to his desk, before suddenly turning around.

"I'm your husband, or did you forget that when you got naked and spread your legs for another man or even risked showing it all to your husband's coworkers?" he countered as she got off the table and slipped the jacket on.

Julia had expected him to be angry, but she hadn't expected this level of vitriol. In disgust, she slapped him hard across the cheek. William only laughed bitterly.

"Do you think that a mere slap is going to wound me after what you've done, Julia?" he replied coldly.

"You bastard! How could you? I heard most of your conversation with Monsieur L'Artiste. You know I didn't have relations with him, why are you being so ugly?" she shouted.

"Forgive me if I'm not charmed at the thought of my wife taking her clothes off in front of another man while simulating the act of physical ecstasy."

"A whore, you're saying I'm a whore? William, I've never lied to you, you've always known about my past with other men, you've seen me at the nudist camp and I've told you everything. I have no more secrets from you! If it bothered you before, why didn't you say anything then? You were always aware of what you were getting, so you can't act surprised or be disappointed that you didn't get a virgin bride. Why do these things matter all of a sudden?"

"Because you're my wife now!" he bellowed, surprising them both. "For the record, I've never considered you a whore. I've never found you anything but lovely -all of you. And your past is a part of you, Julia, so while I don't like the idea of other men enjoying your body, I came to accept it as a part of who you are-and I'd never want to change it-because that would change you. But you're mine now, and I don't like the idea of some artist touching himself to thoughts of your body when he's alone in his studio."

Julia flinched at the crude thought, but William continued.

"Like it or not, Julia, that's my privilege, and one that I'm not particularly interested in sharing. This ensemble," he stated as he touched her necklace before dragging his finger down her chest and torso "is for my eyes only. I have no desire to share you with other men-not like this. Pursuit of your career, women's rights, helping women who can't speak for themselves, are all fine, Julia; admirable even. But not your body, Julia, I draw the line there. Perhaps that makes me terribly old-fashioned and chauvinistic, but there it is."

"William, I only wanted to present you with a special anniversary gift. It was never my intention to hurt or betray you…" Julia trailed off

"Oh, is that all? Well, Miss Ruby Rosevear from my appreciation society is quite the photographer. Perhaps I can arrange for her to take some nude photographs for me to present to you," William retorted with a smirk

Julia was overcome with jealousy and rage of her own for a brief moment, and then she realized that she understood William's anger and jealousy. There was no way she wanted that girl anywhere near her husband's nude body.

But understanding didn't mean that she wasn't angry at such a suggestion, "Oh, tit for tat is it detective? You want to get nude in front of a girl who would love nothing more than an opportunity to show her appreciation for you in a multitude of ways," Julia shrilly replied.

"Well if Miss Ruby wants to show her appreciation in such a manner, surely you won't mind my indulging her."

"I've never known you to be so cruel and crass, William. Where's the man I love? He'd never say these things to me. He'd never refuse to hear my side of the story," Julia whispered.

"Maybe that man wanted to hurt you a fraction as much as you've hurt him. Maybe that man is an idiot who has the poor fortune to love you so much it scares him, and maybe because that love is capable of making him do things he's not proud of. I never considered myself jealous, but I am where you're concerned. I know you don't want to hear that, but there it is. I also now know exactly how Darcy felt when he refused to grant you a divorce -I could never do it either so long as I live; you're my wife or no one's at all. So there you go, it appears that you've gone from one owner to the next."

Julia snapped-she could take no more. She physically launched herself at William, pummeling him with her fists wherever she could make contact.

"You prick. Cad. You speak of love while you seek to destroy me-that's not love, that's …" she trailed off, noting that he barely deflected her blows and made no move to strike her back. He took her beating calmly, as though it were his penance and she realized that she was no better or different than he was.

She too was capable of things she was less than proud of where he was concerned, and before she realized what she was doing, she immediately leapt up onto him and wrapped her arms and legs around him, taking his mouth in an angry kiss.

Far from fighting her off, he fought for control of the kiss, their tongues dueling for mastery-as though their lives depended upon it, and he wrapped his own arms around her, holding her tightly as though she might escape.

Together, they both helped remove his jacket from her body as he carried her across the room, knocking into bookcases and cabinets as he made his way to the door, pinning her against it while they both removed his vest, tie, shirt, and undershirt in a none too gentle manner that caused him (and thereby her as well) to lose balance and crash against the window. There was no question of him setting her down either, as that would have meant relinquishing one another-something in which neither was particularly interested.

As soon as he was as nude as she was from the waist up, she tried to reassert control by nipping at his bottom lip, and he retaliated, by suddenly carrying her over to the table and dropping her most inelegantly onto it before hastily divesting himself of his shoes, pants, and trousers before falling onto her himself.

Using his superior size and position to his advantage, he assumed control of their dance, pinning her arms over her head while he fastened his mouth at the juncture of her neck and shoulder, applying slight but strong enough pressure with his teeth to leave a mark. Just like a vampire who claimed his victim for all eternity, but without drawing blood.

If he was going to be jealous and possessive, she could be too, and as soon as he shifted ever so slightly, she seized her opportunity to do the same to him.

He didn't resist, just angled his neck and shoulder ever so slightly to grant her more access while asking her to bite harder. She complied while digging her fingernails into his back while he groaned her name, wrapping her legs around his waist.

Having marked one another, William looked at her, wordlessly asking permission. She nodded and pulled his head down for a kiss as they reacquainted themselves with one another. Things weren't back to normal between them yet, but there was no doubt that they would be.

* * *

Concerned that the Murdoch's confrontation might indeed escalate to violence, George Crabtree did not immediately go to the armory as he had told the detective. He remained in the bullpen and waited for a sign that he might need to intervene. As he waited, he began to hear just how angry they were at one another, and George knew that the couple would be humiliated if they knew anyone had overheard them. He shouldn't be here listening, but he had to make sure that the couple weren't going to kill one another, which based on this argument, wasn't out of the realm of possibility.

Thankfully, the station was empty - it was only him and the Inspector, who came out of his office, wondering why George was just standing there.

Before he could ask, George motioned for the Inspector to be quiet and gestured towards the Detective's office. As Inspector Brackenreid listened, his eyes widened in surprise at the shouts emanating from the normally composed couple; he'd never heard anything like it.

"Never heard Murdoch this angry, Crabtree," the Inspector whispered.

"Neither have I. He's been avoiding Dr. Ogden for the past few days and has even refused her phone calls. He's been most upset and I assume she has been as well. I just want to make sure they don't harm one another," George whispered back.

"Right…" the Inspector countered, looking at the young constable skeptically.

Just then the shouting stopped, and they heard things being knocked to the ground and quite the commotion being made from the office. Soon, someone thudded against the door, and both Brackenreid and Crabtree were paralyzed with indecision-at what point did they intervene?

Both men looked at one another and by now sounds had replaced words, and they weren't really sure what was going on until they heard the unmistakable voice of the Detective moan "Julia." A few moments later, they heard the Doctor moan "William."

"I don't think they're arguing anymore, sir," George supplied rather uncomfortably.

"They're doing something physical, but it's not fighting, me old mucker," Brackenreid replied with a snort.

"Sir!"

"Why don't you tell me what the details are regarding this lover's quarrel over a drink in my office, son."

"Excellent idea, sir."

Both men quietly fled to the Inspector's office as quickly as they could.

* * *

After what had most definitely been one of their most intense and emotional lovemaking sessions, William and Julia dressed to return to their hotel.

Waiting for Julia to finish putting herself back together, William looked at the painting. At first he'd assumed that they wouldn't be keeping it, but it was indeed exquisite, and William actually found himself loathe to part with it.

"I'm assuming you want it destroyed?" Julia asked, taking his hand.

"I'm not sure that I do. I think maybe we should keep it as I enjoy a beautifully executed nude-even more so when the subject is you," he replied kissing her nose.

"I thought you didn't like the thought of other men looking at me, Detective."

"Oh, I never said that we'd prominently display it, perhaps in the back of the closet at the hotel for now, and perhaps my study once the house is built. It is my anniversary gift after all, it would be rude to refuse it."

"How splendid. Perchance you'll allow me to paint you in the nude as well, although I'm not sure I could do you justice. Perhaps I'd do well to brush up on my photography skills. I can't have you going to Miss Rosevear for such things."

"Perhaps you can practice, as I'm sure your model will be more than willing, and I'll help you with the developing process. After all, spending some time in a dark room with you sounds most enjoyable."

"How fascinating! I look forward to it, Detective."

"Indeed, Doctor."

Together, they quickly rewrapped the painting and returned to their hotel suite, where the painting was stealthily placed in the back of the wardrobe, available for William to look at whenever he wanted. Which, as it turns out, was quite often. It also wasn't long before some scandalous photographs of William joined it, developed at Station House 4 - after hours, of course.


End file.
